Biscuits
by Scarlett Wallflower
Summary: An afternoon in Alfred's decidedly southern kitchen results in a lesson in morality and language barriers.


I have no idea what this is, but my inspiration came from a line in the talented Kacey Musgraves' song "Biscuits": "Mind your own biscuits and life will be gravy" Seriously, check her out, she's magnificent.

I don't really know if there's a pairing here necessarily. It's rife with Ho-Yay for both USUK and FrUS. It's really more of a friends-with-tons-of-sexual-tension fic so there's definitely more than one way to read this.

Oh and Hetalia Axis Powers and its characters belong to Hima-Sensei.

Biscuits

As he was prone to doing, Arthur exhaled through his nose in a way quite reminiscent of a dragon breathing fire. Currently, he was sitting at the table in Alfred's kitchen with Francis, watching as the object of his affections pressed his face against the window in an effort to spy on his neighbors.

Francis, for his part, seemed highly amused by all the goings-on. He sat with a too-perfect smile on his face, eyes twitching mirthfully between Arthur's growing ire and Alfred's preoccupation. He propped his chin up with his hand and chuckled to himself. They were both so adorably stupid, it was really too much.

The entire scene was, in fact, rather comical. His English compatriot was a pompous blowhard and their American host was a charming ignoramus that couldn't keep his spectacle-adorned nose out of others' business. Yes, everything was funny, as long as it wasn't happening to him.

Arthur, on the other hand, was incapable of finding the humor in the situation. He seemed to become even more enraged upon hearing Francis' laughter.

"What in God's name are you laughing at?" He asked with a scowl.

"Oh, nothing," Francis replied breezily, knowing full well that this would make the twist in Arthur's panties even worse. "My, Alfred is certainly engaged on looking at what his fellow residents are doing."

"Yes, well, he's making a bloody fool of himself," Arthur grumbled.

"For once, I agree with you, my old friend. He appears so engaged, how shall we pry him away?"

"Mm, how about a pop to the head? Maybe that might unscramble his brains."

Francis' grin has spread to Cheshire Cat proportions. "Eh, perhaps something slightly less…violent. You know how I detest brutality and I simply abhor the thought of my young friend being subject to your cruelty." He waved his hand lazily, gesturing to no one in particular, as was his custom.

The Brit huffed at the statement of his sometime enemy. "How dare you accuse me of being cruel! I'm very kind to Alfred." Still, there was a note in his voice that wondered if perhaps the accusation held a kernel of truth.

"_Oui_, I'm certain you are. I was merely suggesting that you refrain from harming your spirited young love. Domestic abuse is both illegal and unbecoming."

For once, Arthur remained silent and Francis took this as his cue to beckon Alfred away from his attempts at voyeurism.

"Alfreddddd," Francis called in a gentle, sing-song voice, much like one would speak to a young child.

"Frannnyyyyy," Alfred intoned back, his gaze stubbornly still at the window.

"Don't you think it's rude to leave your guests unentertained, my love?" Francis had always been a stickler for manners, as long as the interaction was not with Arthur. Then, niceties be damned.

"I'll be there in a minute, I just want to know what that weirdo Russian is doing. Hold on, is that Toris' car over there?!"

"Oh for the love of-"

Francis sniffed the air slightly and said in his usual _it-was-only-a-suggestion_ tone of voice, "Oh dear, I believe I smell something beginning to burn."

Alfred gasped and his head snapped up cartoonishly. "My biscuits!"

He sprinted to the oven, grabbed a pot holder, and yanked his precious baked goods out of harm's way.

Francis turned from the direction of the oven and Alfred's undeniably attractive _derriere_ and towards Arthur with a smirk tailor-made to infuriate the already ego-deflated Englishman.

Predictably, Arthur's eyes narrowed with contempt, bitter that Francis had been able to easily corral Alfred, something he had thus far been unsuccessful at.

With his trademark smile back on his face, Alfred headed to the refrigerator and began pulling an assortment of things out.

"Al, what are you doing there, pet?" Arthur asked gently, painfully aware of his typical harshness to the very person he was supposed to love.

"Getting all the stuff we need to eat biscuits with."

Alfred loped over to the table and began setting down an arms-load of condiments. Strawberry jam, grape jelly, peach jam, apricot jam, blueberry jam. A stick of butter.

"Okay, it'll be just a few minutes and then I'll think the biscuits'll be cool enough to eat. Oh, I better get some plates for us."

As he hustled over to the cabinets, Arthur said, "Ah, I'm a bit confused, darling. I thought we were going to be having biscuits, why do we need jams? And have you prepared the tea yet, or shall I?"

Alfred came back with the plates, looking equally befuddled. "What, why do we need tea?"

Arthur laughed, slightly awkwardly. "Well, that's generally what you eat tea biscuits with."

"Tea biscuits? What's that?"

"You know, the little cakes you have your tea with. Isn't that what you've made?"

Alfred scratched the back of his neck. "No…?" He sounded like a schoolboy afraid to give the wrong answer to the teacher.

They both turned to Francis, seemingly asking him to resolve the uncertainty. He himself looked up from examining his cuticles.

"Biscuits? Hmm, may I see them?"

Alfred went over to the stove top where he had placed the baking pan and transferred his homemade, from-scratch biscuits onto a plate and set the plate in the middle of the table.

"Here you go."

Francis trained his blue eyes on them and raised a superbly groomed eyebrow at them.

"Ah, so these are biscuits? I thought that biscuits were, ah, how do you call them in English? They're sweet, shaped kind of like a mushroom, they're blueberry or banana nut…"

"Oh, you mean muffins?"

Francis nodded solemnly. "Yes, that's right."

"Wait, so who told you those were biscuits?"

"Matthew, I suppose he calls them biscuits instead of muffins."

"Oh." Alfred seemed slightly disappointed in himself.

Arthur noticed this, and, feeling that the whole thing was his fault anyway, said quickly, "Oh, but these look delicious as well. Why don't you tell us about them?"

Alfred seemed to regain some of his temporarily lost confidence and sat down in the chair between his guests'. "Well, these biscuits are sort of like bread. But they're a whole lot lighter and fluffier than normal bread. They kind of have a flaky texture. And see, what you usually do is break them in half, and you spread something over them. Me, I like to put butter or, sometimes a little jam on mine. Go ahead, help yourselves."

As Francis and Arthur simultaneously reached for a biscuit, Alfred remarked sheepishly, "Eh-heh, sorry they're a little burnt on the bottom."

"_Non_, they look magnificent," Francis assured him as he reached for the jar of jam.

"It's nothing to fuss over," Arthur added. "Though, perhaps next time you'll pay more attention to your baking and less attention to what the neighbors are up to."

"Yeah," Alfred conceded as he spread peach jam over his biscuit. "But, Toris is my buddy and, well, Ivan's a nutcase. Plus, one time I saw him-"

"Alfred," Francis began in a strangely warning voice. "It is not our place to judge the actions of others."

"That's right. Besides, your own life will pass away while you're so busy staring out the window at someone else's."

Alfred laughed a little. "Jeez, y'all sound like my parents or something."

Francis snorted in amusement. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you did not mean to compare my age to that of your advanced parents."

Arthur couldn't help the smile that was blossoming on his lips. He reached over and ruffled Alfred's hair affectionately. "Well, I suppose we _have_ been around slightly longer than you."

Alfred beamed at his friends with his mouth full of biscuit.

"_Ma puce_, I believe you have a bit of jam on the corner of your mouth." A familiar licentious smile crossed Francis' face. "Shall I lick it off for you?"

Arthur immediately bristled. "Oh hush, you bloody sexual deviant. Alfred, ignore that heathen. I do want you to remember from now on to, hm, how should I say, mind your own biscuits."

As Francis wiped Alfred's face with his napkin, Alfred suddenly shouted, startling everyone, "Shoot! I'm a terrible southerner! I made biscuits without gravy!"

XXXXXX

Author's notes: Gratuitous French is gratuitous. Ma puce is a term of endearment meaning "my flea" for those who were curious. And France is quoting Will Rogers, "Everything is funny as long as it is happening to someone else."

Yes, Alfred is a total corn pone in this story. I'm very southern in real life and I like to imagine America as being that way too.

By the by, the biscuits= muffins thing comes from my father, who is from West Virginia, and frequently equates the two. I'm almost certain that Canadians do not call muffins biscuits, so any Canadian readers may feel free to beat with a wooden spoon.

Actually, any readers feel free to beat me with a wooden spoon because I have no idea what this story is. All I know is that even though I normally ship USUk, I'm becoming very interested in the strangely unpopular FrUS.

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!


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